New York, New York, I Love You.

My First New York: Early Adventures in the Big City is the perfect book to read as new New Yorker. It starts in 1933 with former mayor David Dinkins tale and ends with an aspiring actress' hopes of a bright future in end of the first decade of the 2000s. The stories are fresh and youthful, full of promise and fear, excitement and humor. The editor's preface sums it up like this, "...one's arrival in this city [is] a memory as primal, potent and private (yet begging to be shared) as that other First Time."

While I won't share that awkward story with you, I will share this: I'm seven months deep in my life in New York, and I'm deeply in love. Fuck Virginia, this is the place that is made for lovers.

It is Sunday, 74 degrees in the last days of Summer, and I have been 31 for a week. I live in the East Village in a cozy little spot (that I pay far to much for), where I can sit on my fire escape and dream. I am listening to a mix of Motown greats like Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Solomon Burke and the fabulous Aretha Franklin. I have had a beautiful weekend filled with sarcasm and sex, light and love, rain and rock stars. I have seen the second of five shows that I will see in eight days, 4 of which are nearly back to back. Come Friday I will be exhausted, with only a few precious hours to catch up on my sleep before I host friends for the weekend. I couldn't be happier. My heart is open, and my ears are too. They say to keep your eyes on the prize? Well, that prize is you.

The Complex Nature of Being a Cool Aunt

For the second time this year, I bought a Rolling Stone magazine on a whim at the airport, based on the cover picture alone. The first time, Yann lured me in via sympathy plea - Beastie Boy Adam Yauch had just died and I had just moved to Manhattan, seemingly right on queue. This time, the lead stars of AMC’s Breaking Bad; a show I avoided for far too long, and have been flying through on Netflix for most of the summer, snatched me quick. Even though I am reading a Bowie biography, Loving the Alien, and even though I just got the chapter about his starring role in Labyrinth, which I have been looking forward to greatly, I decided to dive into RS. Jareth can wait a little while longer.

Rolling Stone is still the same familiar, intelligent magazine, and I am happy to pass the time catching up on all the hot topics in the mass media market. While reading a bit on Bob Dylan’s newest feat - his 35^th if you can believe it - aptly named Tempest, (which Dylan denies is a subtle nod to Shakespeare, though I like that link too much to ignore it here); I decided to listen to Bringing It All Back Home. Fitting, as I am leaving Asheville, a place where my heart has a home, and heading back to New York, where my heart is trying to find a place to put some roots down. As I leave North Carolina, I’m feeling a little overwhelmed with nostalgia, but am happy to be so bestowed with those memories, and some new ones too. My sunburn is fresh from tubing down the dirty French Broad River, but I am nevertheless doing well considering my current flurry of activities and satiated state of mind.

I get through most of RS without fuss or muss, enjoying the heavy-hitting stream of still talented writers and journalists. I miss some of the cocky reassurance of reading my man Hunter S. Thompson, but find the stories spun by the likes of Matt Taibbi and Brian Hiatt to be above par. Coverage of the outstanding Bryan Cranston (Malcolm in the Middle), and new-comer and current Hollywood bad-boy crush Aaron Paul is something Jann Wenner should be proud of. It teases the reader with just enough detail - without any spoilers - to keep the show, and its creators, just as fresh and exciting as watching the show itself. I am a glutton for my crushes, so I didn’t predict disappointment in my read. 

For the most part, I continued this symbiotic relationship with RS up until I met up with journalist Jonah Weiner’s piece on newbie band Best Coast's frontwoman Bethany Cosentino. I don’t know what I expected exactly, but this article’s flippant, no-consequences attitude rubbed me wrong. 25-year old Bethany seems a likable band member and interviewee, up until you realize all she seems to care about is Jameson, getting high and her hot boyfriend. All things I liked at that age, and still do to some extent, hell I’m only 30. But reading this, all I could think of (in a sarcastic tone) was, "ugh, fame is just so hard sometimes..." And this is coming from someone who loves a heavily padded and hazy artist biography like a heroin addict likes sugar (see Slash and Life).

So what was it exactly that made me so unsympathetic? 

Maybe I spent too much time this weekend with the children of my friends - little girls who can grow up to be anything they want, who will constantly look for role models in the women in their lives, including rock stars - to care to read about how pilled-out, coked-up and drunk off bourbon this chick has to be to overcome her anxiety to perform in a top-notch and quiet famous band. Call me old-fashioned, but what I care about more is how you became the awesome woman you are. I prefer the likes of Carrie Brownstein, Kim Deal, Stevie Nicks, and Pattie Smith to lean on for queues on how to pursue your dreams and become a badass in a world predominately ruled by men, drug abuse, inferiority complexes and dreams dashed by all of the above. If a writer like Jonah isn’t interested in those sides of the story, then I don’t think I’ll look for her name when I want to know about a breakout female artist. 

Not to mention Bethany herself. In a few years, I feel like she will look back on this interview in embarrassment at the Holly-Golikely, blasé attitude she presented herself in. I don’t want the daughters of my friends to look up to someone like that for guidance on how to be an artist and an adult. More importantly, I don't want these ladies to think that the only kind of writing that is appropriate for young women/role models is to show off their complete disregard for anyone but themselves. As a young writer, I like to read about all kinds of things, but when it comes to role models, I like to see complex stories about hope in the face of struggle and the enduring nature of the human spirit, even when overcome with anxiety.

This weekend allowed the littlest ladies in my life help me accept my own position as a role model in their lives. The nerd in me is growing up, and as an aunt, I find myself holding Rolling Stone to a new standard as another great learning tool to help us all figure out the kind of woman you want to be, and the kind of writing you should expect to read about those women. Here's hoping I can still be cool.
                

Friends of Michael Hall and Michael Roike

My friends Michael Hall and Michael Roike were attacked last night in a random act of violence. Thankfully, they are both alive and were not injured beyond repair. Sadly, Michael Hall is in the hospital and will require surgery to repair a broken cheek bone. I'm not sure how to heal my broken heart to hear of this terrible news, but that can wait. 


To help support Michael Hall's recovery and required surgery, I have created a Facebook event to share thoughts, prayers, love and well wishes.


I have also created a PayPal donation link to help Michael pay for his hospital expenses. Feel free to donate any amount you want and pass this event to other friends of Michael's.


Donations here.


Thank you all for your love and support.


Shelby

Ode to Insomnia

I'm into it.

I'm so into it.

The riots, the renegades, the relentlessness

the rent-less nights.

I can't sleep in this heat and my dreams can't rent space 

when there's none to give.

The stale, warm air climbs into bed with me and lingers 

like the same bad joke I always tell myself 

when I see sweaters on the sale page while shopping online in the summer.

Some thoughts must have a lease protected by rent control, 

though it never seems to be the most profound ones 
that negotiate a way to stick around.

The mind can be a mean landlord.

This sigh is so deep I feel like I'm sinking.

I move quickly out of this place and try and remember my afternoon -  

stripes that match my lips and shoes

draw a friendly stare,

you hover, drop your gaze to check out my cover,

and nod, seeming to approve of my reading fare.

I don't have time to say "I like the mustache"

before you dash for the platform ahead.

Maybe next time instead.

At least then I'd have an excuse to lay here awake in my bed.

Witches, Magicians and A Tall Order

I met a fascinating couple at a house party not too long ago - she, an elegant lady, he a French magician. Deeply curious about how they ended up together, I asked her to tell me their story. She smiled and simply replied, "The way you get the man you want, is to write out everything you want in that man on a piece of paper, then burn it on a new moon. He will find you."

I know what you're thinking. I thought it too. Sounds like witchcraft to me. But hey, what’s love without a little magic.

In the spirit of letting the universe know what I want, I gave it shot. I won't tell you if I burned the paper or not.

A Tall Order

Pussies need not apply. I want a man with guts! The kind that burn his belly and make him passionate.

But not crazy. Well, no more than I am.

He must make a good mix. He must also always want to hear a good song – live if possible.

He must not be intimidated by me, but rather inspired by me. And must also be inspiring.

I don’t mind if he’s smarter than me, but he must never use it against me.

He must be loving. Of me, my family, my friends.

He must also be misanthropic (because sometimes I am hateful).

He must support that, amongst other things. He must also want support.

I like a compliment now and again, but more important than that is honesty. He must always be honest.

             Polite’s not bad either.

I like an eager man, but not the kind that you want to kick in the teeth or turn your face crooked with contempt. In fact, I appreciate mistakes that are corrected. And apologies.

And I love yous.

And you’re beautifuls.

He should be creative and craving.

He should want to fuck me often! Though I like it sweet sometimes too. He should kiss me deeply and earnestly. Otherwise, move it along.

He should be my best friend, my most favorite person, and sometimes my least.

And if I decide I’d like to have a kid or two some day, it would be cool if he were into that too.   

Playwriting Blues

I'm attempting to work on my play for Script Frenzy, but I am sooooooooo distracted. If you could see me right now, you might think I feel this way because of one the following details.

I am sitting on my fire escape enjoying a glass of Chardonnay in the perfectly mild, 65 degree Spring day (never mind the goddamn ginormous black flies). No one can really see me, but I wanted to wear it, so I did - a new dress - and it is so cute. LBD with flair - small spots of electric blue, white and lavender explode like constellations across the pattern, and I am sporting my fake Ray Bans, which are the same shade of purple. Michael would be so proud. I miss my friends. As any true Southerner would tell you, Sundays are meant to be spent with company.

My current company is The Rapture humming along in the background. I got to see them play last night in Williamsburg among a sold-out crowd of dancing fans. I don't often refer to my ex with love and thanks, but for the introduction to this band, I am grateful. And though I believe his motives to be based purely on an ecstasy high, I'd also like to thank the guy at the show that was so moved by the music and my dancing, that he wanted to kiss me, and did.

Your lips were soft and I appreciate the gesture.

That aside, I am brought back to the memory of writing another play on another beautiful Spring Sunday 10 years ago (if you can believe it). I, a senior in college, worked to complete my B.A. in Creative Writing, by taking a playwriting class. One of the most fun classes I can ever remember taking in my academic career. Our main assignment, outside of reading Shakespeare to our heart's content: write a 15-minute one-act play to perform to an audience of peers. No topic too taboo.

My play, F*@!in' Addicts, told the tale of a Guns n' Roses Addiction Support Group. The cast consisted of my friends Metta Pry (also my roommate at the time, and a true G n' R fan - a poster of Slash hung regal in the kitchen), Matt Brooks, Stuart Gaines, Ben Seeman and Erin Adams. The play was hilarious, and I got an A in the class, but that is just filler as to where my current nostalgia comes from.

I sat on the porch steps basking the sun and writing. At the time, I lived in a canary yellow house on Chatham Road in Asheville, NC, and I was dating my neighbor, Brian. He came down to offer creative support, and helped me plow through several more pages of the script with tales of his own love affair with the band. It was hilarious. The mix of my creative high; the surge of testosterone seeping from the topic at hand; the soft, feminine beauty that can only accompany a Spring afternoon; and the intimate laughter between lovers quickly morphed into an intense need to fuck.

And so we did.

I hope the brutal honesty of those last few sentences made you go back and read it again because that is why I even started writing this post. I am distracted. While I love my scenery, I've got nothing but memories to break my concentration. When I finally abandon the fire escape and crawl back in the window, I'll have to cross over my bed to get inside. Those sheets are lonely, and I can think of nothing creative to say. Here's hoping my libido shuts the fuck up and my expressive self finds some room to breathe. My script sure could use it.

          

Best of...

I wrote this last January and never posted it. I think it's because I don't really like it, but fuck it, here it is.

Cut the freckles right off my face
they're as useless as a pocket full of paper lace.
Like the bump born to the bridge of my nose
How dare these genes impose!
The curse of the Hopper hips they say it will be
One day your straight as a Dogwood tree,
the next your trying to remember the proforma.
Though I do look more like my Grandma Norma
I didn't ask for this,
something somehow so amiss.
For a t-shirt that doesn't quite fit,
screen-printed with your name on it
handmade with nothing but the best intentions.
But that I won't mention.
Here in this place where I wait,
It sure is getting late.
Wow, real first rate.
Another one of my "Best of" plays as I sit
and makes me feel cheap.
Oh, sorry, wrong heap.
This one's "The Ultimate"...
Even more full of it.
Not unlike this poet.
That's not what you meant,
I know
but I'm dragging it in tow
just like this state of mind
It'll be gone in no time.